Young Mastermind
by BellatrixAdlerFemmeFatale2
Summary: Sherlock receives a mysterious text from an unknown entity. When he goes to meet the sender, he finds nothing he ever expected. This is a fun fic I cam up with a while ago. It happens (presumably) after John finds out Sherlock survived Reichenbach, and life has gone on. Enjoy and PLEASE review and tell me what you think!
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The text was from a blocked number. Of course it was from a blocked number. Sherlock Holmes had received numerous texts, and even phone calls from blocked numbers, and he was beginning to suspect that he truly hated technology. There was so little to be learned from a text message, especially an anonymous one, like this one. Sherlock didn't mind going anonymous in some of his own texts, but when others did it to him it was extremely aggravating.

"John, I said pass me my pen."

John Watson had just entered the flat, burdened with laundry fresh from the cleaners. He gave his flatmate an incredulous look. As usual, Sherlock had been talking to the walls.

John gave Sherlock the pen, sitting down heavily in his usual armchair. Sometimes he wondered whether his limp had entirely gone away. He watched his eccentric flatmate scribble away at a page of blank-staff paper.

"Composing again?"

Sherlock glanced up distractedly. His mind had not been on the notes on the page. Although his violin had somehow made its way into his arms, where he now cradled it delicately, he had no recollection of making this happen. His brain was sifting through cyber space, images and concepts flicking by as fast as he could dismiss them.

"Ah, yes." His answer was not a conscious one. Sherlock did not see John, even as he stared at him.

John groaned slightly, and pulled his newspaper towards him. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, in anticipation of his coming, had prepared a steaming pot of tea. John poured himself a cup and allowed the armchair to swallow him up. He had no doubt that Sherlock would eventually start to talk, as soon as he had come out of his thinking place.

A slight twang got John's attention. Glancing up, he realized that the light had changed and it was now early evening. The sound had been caused by Sherlock dumping his violin roughly on to the sofa table. He began to pace.

"D'you want a cup'a?" John rose to turn on the lamp. Sherlock made an impatient noise. John pressed ruthlessly on. "I'm making one. Sherlock, care to share what's put you into your 'mind palace' all afternoon?"

Sherlock swept brusquely across the room and snatched his coat from the stand. "Going out," he said, rather unnecessarily, tying his scarf.

John shook his head and smiled wryly. As the footsteps of his flatmate descended the stairs and faded, John headed to the kitchen to make another pot of tea.

* * *

Sherlock strode down the street, cursing chatty roommates, tea, and everything in 221B Baker Street in general. He ducked into an alley and withdrew his cellphone from the pocket of his trademark greatcoat. He retrieved the troublesome text again, and read it through.

Meet at Lucetti's  
6:30  
You'll want to

Sherlock clenched his jaw. 6:30 rapidly approached. Could it possibly, improbably, be _her?_ The Woman? The last time he had contacted Irene Adler, she had been in Russia, serving some general or other. Serving. He smirked. But no, this text had none of her trademark style. The Woman would want him, Sherlock, the only person on earth who knew of her survival and whereabouts, to know who was texting him. No, this was certainly NOT Irene Adler.

Who then? Truly, he could think of multiple enemies who would like to ambush him in just such a way, but not a single benign entity. He fingered his long-handled riding crop, tucked into his coat. He had only recently started carrying a weapon. Up until now, he had relied solely on his wits. His weapon of choice, he knew, would not stop a gunman. Only the flight of thought can outstrip the flight of a bullet, and so, Sherlock considered himself well enough armed. His insatiable curiosity led his footsteps on towards Lucetti's Italian Ristaurante.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The little cafe was a smart, well cared for place. Sherlock considered the kind of person who would choose such a place. A fastidious individual with good taste. That, or someone who simply lived nearby. Sherlock entered the cafe.

He scanned the patrons. An elderly couple nodded silently over their plates of spaghetti. A tired mother tried to calm her three boys. A young girl sat alone, wearing a beatific smile and twirling her hair while looking at the menu. And at the back of the cafe, a tall man in crisp, well-cut grey suit sat at a small table, set for two. Sherlock smiled to himself and looked the man over. Middle aged, with... no wife or children, judging by the state of his clothes, which, while neat, were old and slightly faded. He was not a poor man, going by his gold watch and sapphire cufflinks, he simply hadn't gotten lucky in his search for a wife (he was looking. He had a number written on his wrist). He had a dog, a large wolfhound by the height and quality of the hair on his trousers. He was trying to lose weight, as the tight belt, lose jacket and sparse meal in front of him told. Sherlock left further deductions for later and headed towards the table.

"What do you want?"

The man looked up, startled. He was a smoker, Sherlock noticed, judging by the stained fingernails and bad teeth. The marks on his tie said he had been lax in his dieting: he'd had a corned beef sandwich for lunch. He was... an accountant by trade, judging by his mussed cuffs, the indentation on his lower forearm, and the way he nervously drummed his fingers on the table.

The man was still staring. "What do you _want?_" the detective repeated.

"N-nothing." The man was Irish. Irish and apparently stupid.

"Did you, or did you not send me a text telling me to meet you here?"

"N-no sir! I'm just waiting for my, erm, lady friend! Aiofe, there you are!" A tall, redheaded woman slid into the seat opposite the Irish accountant, staring up at Sherlock with confusion in her eyes. Sherlock let out a groan and wheeled to face the rest of the cafe. Who then?

And then, as though in a trance, he watched the girl, who could not have been more than thirteen, rise from her chair and smile directly at him.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

For the first time he could remember, Sherlock Holmes's jaw dropped. The couple whose dinner he'd interrupted turned back to each other, seemingly glad that this madman had been distracted. Sherlock walked slowly towards the table where the girl sat, which, he now noticed, was also set for two. How had his keen senses missed this?

"Are you wondering how you could have bypassed me?" she asked, eerily expressing his thoughts. "Sit down, Mr Holmes. We need to talk."

She pronounced the "L" in "Holmes" with a long roll. Sherlock, amazingly, could not think of a regional accent that this peculiarity of speech belonged to.

This girl- to the best detective in the world, she was a complete and total... enigma.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"You sent the text? _You?"_

She smiled like a clever cat and set down her menu.

"Good evening Mr. Holmes. Thank you for coming. I do wish that you hadn't come armed, as I simply want to... talk."

Where had he heard those words before? A chill ran down Sherlock's spine. A vision of a weathered old cab-driver, sitting across from him at a long, gleaming table.

"Talk?"

"Yes Mr. Holmes. I want you to tell me something. Why did you bypass me when you came to this cafe, assuming that that man over there was the one who sent you my little text?"

Sherlock answered before thinking, something he did not generally do. "Because you're a child." He fell silent, realizing what he had just said.

Her smile widened. He took the moment of silence to imply his best techniques on this mysterious child. He supposed she was well-to-do, for her dress, while simple, was well made. It was a mature dress for such a young girl; it was calf length, a dark grape color. Her auburn hair was half up, half down. He shocked himself. When had he been reduced to simply observing what someone wore? Not since a naked Irene Adler had pranced into the room had he been so baffled. He leaned back slightly. But this girl was not naked! He should be able to find _something_ in her neat dress. And yet...

"I see you are employing your famous techniques on me. Tell me Mr. Holmes, what are you finding?"

He jumped a bit. Again, she had eerily guessed exactly what he thought. Had he become that readable?

"Well..."he began, unwilling to reveal how little he knew of her. "You're fairly wealthy by your clothes, but this could be your one good dress. It's doubtful that your parents have much input in your life, considering you're out with a strange man in a nice dress for apparently no reason. You seem very... intelligent. I suppose you've already finished your education." Sherlock trailed off. This list was nowhere near his usual standards.

She grinned. "A perfectly sound analysis, but I'd expected more."

He jumped. "How do you know I said that?"

"I have ways. And now Mr. Holmes, shall I tell you what you need to know? Yes, I think I shall. While your deductions were fair, you saw _exactly_ what I wanted you to see. Don't act so shocked Mr. Holmes. I am indeed wealthy. Very much so. And no, my parents have little to no input on my life. But that is because my father disappeared on the streets of Baghdad four years ago, and my mother has been certifiably insane since then. You didn't see that? Pity. Of _course _I'm intelligent, Mr. Great Detective. I got _you _here. Oh yes, I know how to read you like an open book, if you will pardon the cliché. You see, I have... friends."

Sherlock was listening dazedly. He only found the ability to speak when she dropped the last, suggestive syllable.

"Friends?" he demanded, "Ah, I see now. Friends who whisper in your ear, friends who use _you," _he pointer an accusing finger, "to get to _me."_

She laughed. She actually laughed at him! Sherlock had an odd sensation. One that he had inflicted on many, but had never actually felt himself. The feeling was that of his ego being ripped from him and dangled before his nose. This... _child _had succeeded in completely baffling him

"Oh Mr. Holmes, how fun denial is to watch! Isn't it hard to imagine that someone else might be as clever as you are? Especially someone like ME!" She giggled, obviously delighted. "So, Mr. Holmes, would you like me to tell you a little about why you're here? Other than your extreme curiosity, your boredom with everyday life, your incapability of functioning on a lower, less active level that is. Oh yes, and the fact that you're currently rather annoyed with John because he was disturbing you. You didn't fasten your coat when you went out, and since Baker Street isn't very far, and you were stewing when you left, you didn't notice that in your hurry you forgot about it. Shall we order some spagh-bol while we talk then? No? Fine then. Mr. Holmes, I asked you here because I need your assistance."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Sherlock stiffened. "I don't generally give help to those I dislike."

"You might make an exception this time. You see, being a child has certain advantages. Over the past five years, since the age of eight, I have built up an empire, which, because of my age, has gone relatively unnoticed by authorities, mainly your brother. This is made up of mostly muscle who get me what I want, where I want and when I want. A few more intelligent agents keep an eye on people like you, but they're all still idiots."

"What exactly is this empire trying to achieve?"

She raised her eyebrows. "But I thought you'd already have deduced that, Mr. Holmes. We're trying to find my father."

Sherlock cursed himself for not seeing this earlier. The restaurant suddenly seemed too small, too stuffy. He didn't know how to handle people who did things like this, made decisions out of sentiment, made their whole life's _work_ out of sentiment. The girl in front of him suddenly seemed even younger than she was, and he fidgeted uncomfortably. She broke in on his perturbation.

"Mr. Holmes, I know all this seems trivial, the sentimental dream of a foolish child. But I assure you, I have never succumbed to the weakness of love, not even towards my parents. From what I have learned, you have little love for your parents yourself. No, I do this for a quite different purpose. You see, my father was and is an extremely powerful man, the head of a criminal empire. He had fingers in almost every pie on the globe, most of those pies being baked by governmental parties. I am not a criminal Mr. Holmes. My father is and was. I wish to wrest from him this empire, and I wish to turn it to my own purposes, namely, those of making money. But I wish to do it in a less risky way. A way that, in the end, will pay off most deliciously. My father himself is of relative unimportance to me."

Sherlock considered the young person who, for the umpteenth time that night, had shocked and flabbergasted him. She was obviously a cold and dangerous reasoner; he had the feeling that, while she claimed not to be a criminal, she would not take resistance, and did not care how those who provided it were crushed.

"And what would I get out of this?"

"The thrill of the hunt, the strangeness of the problem, the entertainment that these things bring you. I know that promises of riches beyond your wildest dreams will not interest you in the slightest, but they might interest your friend, who is welcome to come along to provide some comic relief. I would offer you my father to take into custody, but he is very slippery. I have no doubt that once I am done with him he will once again slip away from you."

Sherlock quelled his anger at being dismissed and demanded, "And why do you need me?"

"I told you already Mr. Holmes, I have my fair share of goons. But I want someone on this final hunt who is at last close to my level. Who can understand my reasoning before it leaves my mouth. Who doesn't _completely botch everything I set them." _She composed herself, and gazed at him. "You're not the restaurant type, are you Mr. Holmes? Walk with me, we'll go get some crisps and I'll... show off a bit."

As they exited the restaurant, Sherlock inquired, "When talking about your father, you said that he would 'once again slip away from me.' This implies that I've met him before?"

"Of course you have, Mr. Holmes." she said casually. "My father is Jim Moriarty."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Sherlock was possibly the only man in the world who could ever have kept walking after such a statement. Even so, all that kept him doing so was the incontestable data. He rearranged his face and turned to his companion.

"He's dead." said the detective flatly. "He killed himself on the roof of St. Bart's. I saw him die."

He expected the girl to blanche. He had, in fact, braced himself for just such an occurrence. And yet... she _smiled. _

"John saw you die."

_He _was the one who blanched. How had this thought not occurred to him? He decided to play it off.

"Look, I'm sorry..." He didn't know her name. She didn't volunteer it. He soldiered on. "I know you have hopes for your father, but he was a seriously disturbed man. I don't think he's coming back. I saw his blood on that roof."

Like a disturbed echo she returned, "John saw your blood on that street. Mr. Holmes, I am not clinging to vain hopes. I know that my father is alive because I watched, long after your 'body' was taken away and the street had cleared. I watched my father get up from the roof and wipe some of the blood off his head. He saw me and he waved at me, before disappearing."

Sherlock did stop this time. He stared at this impossible girl. He stared, and his jaw dropped a second time.

"Mr. Holmes, his pretend death was even simpler than yours. Simply attach a blood pack to the back of your head, stick an un-loaded gun into your mouth, make a loud noise (I don't know what kind Mr. Holmes, don't ask) as of a gun shot and fall, simultaneously bursting the blood pack. Oh, Mr. Holmes, I _am _disappointed."

As Sherlock stood there, on a nameless alley in London, his greatcoat somehow not keeping out the cold, the world seemed to get darker and lighter at the same time. While bird songs rang in his ears, incessant shivers ran up and down his spine. Five years ago, a lonely bachelor, who didn't have a single friend, this news that Moriarty wasn't dead would've been joyous. Someone had returned to entertain him! Five years ago, Moriarty's death would've infuriated him. It had been too _easy, _too much like _losing. _But now, with his friends to consider, Moriarty's return lay on his shoulders like a black pall. And he stood there in that alley, and rocked on his heels.

All the time, she had been watching his face. She had an odd expression on her (usually) neatly arranged features, in which he instinctively started finding disturbing similarities to her father. She was a very pretty girl, but she had that impish smile and cold, fathomless eyes. She was not smiling now. She was looking at him with something like... compassion? He shook off this thought. She spoke, gently.

"My name is Lucrezia, Mr. Holmes. Shall we?" And without another word, they walked on.

* * *

It was almost dark by the time they reached the crisp machine that Lucrezia seemed to be heading to. Sherlock shook his head curtly when she waved a hand toward the machine, she shrugged and bought herself a bag. He felt as though he should buy it for her, but brushed off the notion as silly.

"And now, Mr. Holmes, I'd like you to meet one of my more intelligent agents, one of the many set to watch you. I believe you two have met before?"

"Yeah, we have. Hello, Freak." said a horribly familiar voice.

And Anderson stepped out from the shadows behind the crisp machine.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

How many times? How many times would Sherlock be almost knocked over with the shock of something the girl could do, tell or show him? He shifted on his feet.

"You use unusually stupid agents." he proclaimed, praying it was true and he hadn't been somehow wrong all along. Anderson snarled, dropping into a crouch, but Lucrezia held up a warning hand, and Anderson settled back onto his feet.

"Well, he's not up to our standards, but he does well enough at monitoring you. However, it seems his loyalties had shifted. Before the fall, if you remember, Anderson was one of those lovely people tarring your name. I didn't tell him to do that, did I now, Anderson?"

As though a veil had dropped over his flat face, Anderson paled. His black eyes widened and his lips began to quiver. He behaved as though the petite girl before him was some sort of monster. Something in Sherlock told him that she very well could be.

"I-I just... he was rude to me... I never liked him, so I... I took the opportunity to make him look bad. I didn't know..." Anderson's halting speech was accompanied by darting eyes, his hands wildly working.

"Cut the act." Lucrezia's face was cold and entirely impassive. Anderson's hand made a convulsive movement. Faster than Sherlock had thought possible, Lucrezia produced a sleek, deadly handgun, complete with silencer. Sherlock felt suddenly inadequate, a spectator in a personal drama. He was not the star, and it bothered him. This... _inferiority _to the main action was not something he was used to. He stepped back, senses on high alert. The girl was no longer small, unnoticeable. She was a finely tuned machine, every cell screaming for action, a panther about to spring. She stepped steadily towards the cowering Anderson, who backed up until he hit the alley wall.

"Do I need to do some damage, or are you going to tell me everything?" Lucrezia flipped the handgun over in her hand, a graceful arc, catching it expertly. Anderson, although obviously terrified, tightened his lips. She pointed the gun, very deliberately, in between Anderson's eyes. "Let me think then. Do I have any more need of you? Well, I suppose if I just killed you now, you wouldn't be able to tell me what I want to know. I would really _love _to kill you though, my faithful servant." She spit out the last two words with such vehemence, that Sherlock was taken aback to the point that he almost missed her finger tightening on the trigger. Almost, but not quite.

She emptied the gun at Anderson.

But not one shot hit him. A neat ring of bullet holes encircled the terrified man's head, outlining his shoulders, neck, and skull. If just _one _of the shots had gone awry, Anderson would be dead. He obviously knew it. Lucrezia twirled the gun absently again, and crossed her arms.

"Let's put it this way. You tell me what I want to know, or I start getting rid of body parts." She reloaded the gun so quickly, that neither Sherlock nor Anderson could react, then pointed it at Anderson's right shoulder. "And believe me Anderson, this time I won't miss."

"I'll tell you! I'll tell you everything! She threatened me! She made me!" Anderson was a quivering wreck, pinned against the wall with his own terror. Bits of shrapnel that had been dislodged by her earlier volley had cut his cheeks and upper arms, slicing cleanly through his crisp white shirt and leaving streaks of red. It occurred to Sherlock how helpless and pathetic his former enemy looked.

"Talk." Lucrezia let the word out curtly, keeping the gun trained on Anderson. The quivering man slumped against the wall.

"It was Bellatrix. They made me do it."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Harry James Potter was sick of fame. He was sick of going to Diagon Alley under his Invisibility Cloak, sick of coming home every day to the mountain of fan mail, usually containing several bottles of love potion disguised as "chocolate," and, most of all, sick of the screaming. The constant, un-abating _screaming _of very silly girls.

Now, he collapsed into his easy chair by the fire, throwing his head back, and letting out a groan. Someone had stepped on his Invisibility Cloak in Diagon Alley, where he had been picking up some Broom Wax for Ginny, and the ensuing melee was more than he could bear. James was asleep, sucking happily on a toy, and Ginny sat at the table, sorting through the mail. Harry could fold himself into the chair, and brood as he hadn't done since he was a teenager.

"It's not as if I saved _their _lives. Most of the time I just got lucky, and had ideas at the last moment. They act as though it was all a blaze of glory, spells and cloaks and, and, I don't know. They forget that there was cold, and death, and losing sometimes and..." He trailed off, gazing at Ginny, who had a small smile on her face as she continued putting aside fragrant pink envelopes.

"You've heard this all before, haven't you?" Harry gazed at his wife, who raised an eyebrow pointedly. He sighed. She laughed aloud.

"Harry, why don't you get over to Ron and Hermione's for a while? I can ask Hannah over to keep an eye on Jamie for a while, and then I'll come too, once I'm done with the mail. We haven't had a good catch up in ages." Ginny grinned at her husband. "Oh, go on, you know you want to."

Harry couldn't resist taking her in his arms and kissing her, before Disapparating.

Arriving in Puddleby, only one village over, Harry strode briskly along the street. He didn't think there'd be anyone who recognized him here, but as a precaution, he ducked into an alley and performed a Disillusionment Charm, at which he had become very good. Arriving on the porch of the sprawling (and Unplottable) house where his two best friends in the world lived, he withdrew the charm and rapped on the door.

A wild barking sounded from within, along with some scuffling and muttered curses. A flash of red hair sped past the window, then dove to the floor. The door was opened a crack. A face, framed in bushy hair, appeared.

"Come in, hurry" whispered Hermione frantically. "Flossie's going bonkers, she's much too excited, she'll run out into the street if we're not careful. Come _in _Harry." And with that, she grabbed his arm and yanked him into the house.

Ron Weasley lay on the floor, on top of an enormous Irish setter, who was wriggling with all her might. The dog's red fur matched Ron's untidy mop of hair to a tee. The dog finally triumphed; throwing Ron off, she galloped up to Harry, leaping and whining.

"Hello Flossie, who's a good dog? You are, yes you are. Hello mate." Harry grinned at his disheveled friend, who, having gotten up, was scratching the back of his head, embarrassed.

"Blimey Hermione, couldn't you let up just for one night? She's stopped me just Petrifying the bloody mutt whenever someone comes to the door," he added, by way of explanation.

"Oh, shut up Ronald. Harry, why don't you come on in to the sitting room, I'll get us some tea." Hermione waved her wand in the direction of the kitchen, where clunking could be heard. Moments later, three mugs of freshly prepared tea came zooming towards them.

"Thanks, Hermione. Listen, Gin'll be along in a minute, you might make her some." Harry caught his tea, and followed Ron into the sitting room.

Indeed, it seemed that it took even less than a minute for Ginny to arrive. A knock sounded at the door, but before Ron or Hermione could arise, Ginny burst into the sitting room, her eyes wild.

"Oi, sister mine, may I remind you that this is MY house, and-" Ron began, but Harry shushed him impatiently. He had seen the expression in his wife's eyes. He stood, and approached her.

"Ginny, what is it? What's wrong?"

Her face was deathly pale. She held a crumpled letter in her hand.

"It's her. She's back. It's Bellatrix."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

As a thousand questions dashed through Harry's head, he watched Ron rise, as though in a dream. His friend crossed the sitting room to Ginny.

"What d'you mean she's back?"

Ginny said nothing, merely stared at Ron. Ron grabbed her by the shoulders.

"I SAID WHAT DO YOU MEAN?" He shook her. Harry leapt at Ron, blind with rage and fear.

"GET YOUR EFFING HANDS OFF MY WIFE." He barely felt his fist connect with Ron's cheek; his wand was forgotten in his back pocket; nothing existed except terror and fury.

And then they went down in a tangle of limbs, an absurd parody of Ron's earlier tussle with Flossie. Indeed, the dog was there, sniffing, whining, and Hermione's and Ginny's scream intermingled into a shrill whistle in Harry's ears, and he and Ron lay on the ground, panting and still. It was as though some understanding passed between them. They simply lay, winded by their own panic.

Suddenly Harry realized that a third body had hit the floor, and became aware of Ginny's voice, cajoling, gasping. He rose, but it was not Ginny on the floor, but Hermione, curled into a ball and gasping, crying as though her heart would burst, shaking all over. The sound seemed to turn off in Harry's ears for a moment, as he watched her, horror coursing through him. Ron leapt away, his mouth working. He was obviously saying something, but Harry couldn't hear it. Then Ron hit the floor next to Hermione and took her in his arms, and the sound seemed to come back on again.

"She- she can't- Ron, she'll hurt me!" Hermione's white face was a mess of tears. Harry noticed for the first time that he had knocked his teacup of the side table, where it had fallen and broken. The shards lay in a puddle of tea. He stared at them dully, Hermione's and Ron's voices piercing him like knives.

"Hermione, what is it? What's wrong?" Ginny had moved in on Hermione now.

"SHE TORTURED ME!" Hermione screamed it; she sounded mad, and more afraid than Harry had ever heard her before. "She'll come back, and she'll do it again, and oh Ron..." Hermione was shaking so much that she was bumping Flossie intermittently with her quivering leg.

"She can't be back." said Harry in a low voice, drawing near Ginny. "If she's back, then... could he be back too?" Ginny stared up at him.

"Maybe."

His insides contracted, and he felt as though he would be sick. He wanted to join Hermione there on the floor.

Could Voldemort possibly come back?


End file.
